


i wouldn’t buy it / your coolness / the quiet

by canonlytrans



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Sparring, but i figure i may as well tag that, i mean they do both want to do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonlytrans/pseuds/canonlytrans
Summary: Dave Strider has a sword to your throat.





	i wouldn’t buy it / your coolness / the quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Dirty and Clean' by Stephanie Schneiderman.
> 
> I wrote this for the John&Dave Sandbox Server. Y'all bring out the worst in me, thank you.

Dave Strider has a sword to your throat.

Let’s take a moment to process this: Dave Strider has a sword to your throat. His katana, to be specific, not one of the ones he got from in the game. Which means serious business. But to be fair, you probably deserve it, in some roundabout way. You always have managed to piss him off, get under his skin, in ways that nobody else can.

“You know,” he says, and his voice is as sharp as the blade at your throat, “I used to fuckin’ idolize you. Used to look up to you. Used to wanna tell you about fuckin’ everythin’ I ever thought of.” His accent’s stronger than usual, pointed in the way he’s pissed off. He’s close enough you can almost see his eyes behind his shades, but you don’t really want to see them. “You got everythin’ you fuckin’ wanted, growin’ up. How’s it feel now, havin’ _nothing_? You just got a birthday sign you never take down, and friends you never talk to.”

“Dave,” you hiss. You could just dematerialize, could turn to wind and reappear elsewhere, but you don’t. “Put down the sword. If you’re going to fight me, make it a fair fight.”

“And why should I? _You_ never make _anythin’_ fair.”

“And _you_ do?” You _try_ to step back, but there’s only brick behind you. “You always use your time powers in fights… or your fraymotifs…”

“What, so you don’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

You can feel something boiling beneath your skin, threatening to pop. You know he could kill you right here, right now, but you’d just respawn. It wouldn’t be Just or Heroic. Part of you wants him to, to see the remorse on his face, the tears, after you respawn. Hear the fruitless apologies - know he means them. But right now, he doesn’t look like he cares.

All he looks like is angry.

“ _Why should I_?” he asks again, voice low, thrum of annoyance tinging his words darkier, and heavier, than usual.

You find you like it.

“Because then you can kick my ass fair and square, unless you’re too chicken.”

You can see his eyes widen beneath his shades, and for a second he falters, giving you enough time to knee him right in the groin. Dave gasps, stumbling backwards, almost dropping the sword. You grab him by the elbow, pry open his fingers while he makes a yelping noise at you, and grab the sword for yourself.

“You left yourself open there,” you say, brandishing the sword like it’s one of your hammers. “I’m going to keep this.”

“Asshole.”

“Oh yeah? Then why’d you used to have a crush on me when you were a little kid, huh? Yeah, Karkat told me alllll about it after you two broke up… came venting to me, wanted to cry on my shoulder - we ate some ice cream together, drank a little… _I see why you like trolls so much_.”

You’re jesting, but apparently Dave takes the bait, shaking his hand like it’ll help his fingers before lunging at you. He pins you to the ground, teeth bared, and you easily kick up, sending him flying a few feet into the air. You roll out of the way, getting back to your feet, dusting off your pants, before he hits the ground again.

You hear him let out a quiet sob. Softly. Barely. But it’s there.

Your eyes widen, and you run over, hands suddenly shaking. He reaches a hand out to you, and you grab it, ready to pull him up, before his other hand takes hold of your ankle and brings you stumbling towards the ground.

“What the fuck?” you hiss, throwing out a blast of wind to knock you backwards and onto your feet, a good foot and a half away from him. “I was trying to _help_ you.”

“You attacked me first,” he hisses, stumbling to his feet, his shades haphazard across his face, showing a little of his right eye.

He’s… crying.

You didn’t expect that.

“You pinned a sword to my throat! We can talk about this,” you mumble. “Dave…”

“You called me a liar -”

“No, I _said_ if your Bro was really _that_ bad, why didn’t you call CPS?”

He laughs, and it’s bitter, and frozen. “ _Because I didn’t realize, dipshit_. For someone so fuckin’ smart, you sure know jack shit. So c’mon, you want that fair fight? _Bring it on._ ” He drops into a defensive stance before you can even blink, .1 seconds before he reaches his hand out and makes a ‘come hither’ motion with his middle finger.

Your eyes widen.

You’ve never actually strifed Dave. Hell, you’ve never even fought _with_ him. You know he’s a capable swordsman… and with a sword, he could easily beat you… but like this? Strength is your strong suit, and offense _is_ the best defense.

You’re almost prone to say it’s not a fair fight.

Instead, you charge at him.

He flash steps out of the way, and you hit the brick wall, the taste of copper running down your nose and into your mouth a second later. You turn towards him, wiping away the blood, and grimace.

“Is that all you got?” he asks, rolling up the sleeves on his button down. “‘Cause I could do this all fuckin’ day, John.”

You crack your knuckles. You can feel your heartbeat speeding, the noise running through your bones and pulsing in your hands. If you don’t punch him, you’re _pretty_ sure you’re going to explode.

But you don’t WANT to punch him. He’s your best friend. He’s Dave, he’s turntechGodhead, he’s the guy who tells you about apple juice and used to insist puppets were cool. But right now, he’s barely that. He’s twenty three and nothing like the Dave you grew up talking to. _He’s_ changed so much he’s barely recognizable, and _you’ve_ stayed too much the same, clinging to the past.

And he’s not even YOUR Dave. _YOUR_ Dave is dead, in whatever remains of the dreambubbles. This isn’t your Dave, this is a shadow of your best friend. An imposter. Except… _you’re_ the real imposter.

You plant your feet wide apart. “So could I.”

“Oh yeah?” He laughs again, and you really don’t like that noise, but it sends a weird hum of _something_ through you, so you charge at him again, pushing him to the ground, your fist colliding with his face.

The glasses hit the grass when he turns his face, throwing his arms up in an x shape to try and protect his face. But you know you’ll leave bruises when tomorrow comes. He pushes his knees up and tries to throw you off, but you roll to the side. He follows, climbing on top of you, technically straddling your hips with his knees, slamming his fist into your face again. His eyes are red, even more so than usual - he’s _crying_ , and you’re wincing, your glasses shattered on impact. You’ll need new ones, and you can’t see him as well, but you know he’s still crying when he finally quits hitting you, leaning back and breathing heavily.

Your nose is still bleeding, the blood running down your chin and dripping onto your neck, and you try to push him off, try to get out from beneath him, but you raise your hands and they just fall back to the ground.

“Dave,” you growl.

He looks down at you, and he looks outright _irate_ , his hips shifting when you try to shift yours to try and somehow find a way to push him off. His hands grab yours, pinning them above your head, and you can’t even use _that_ to levy him off of you. No, he’s got you pinned, for now. Your face just hurts, your head feels raw and broken, and your nose is still fucking bleeding.

His hips shift again, and _that_ sparks something.

You surge upwards as much as possible and kiss him.

It’s bad - too much teeth, yours hitting against his, his eyes wide before closing. There’s blood on his face now, in his mouth, in your mouth. You bite down hard on his lip, and he makes a gasp you’ve never heard before, dropping your hands. You reach up and grab a fistful of his hair, tugging a little too hard, and he lets out a moan, rolling his hips against yours and…

Oh. You actually _like_ that.

You grind your own hips upwards, his eyes brighten with something akin to lust.

You’ve got him now.

Dave gasps when you rut up against him, hard and a little too fast, and he looks ridiculously close to falling over. You can feel his dick pressing against yours, and you’re on the highway to getting hard, but he’s already in the throes of it, so you push use the newfound leverage to push him onto his back. He hisses, trying to fight against it, but settles, one hand in your hair, pulling you back down to kiss.

“Move your fuckin’ hips,” he snarls, and you settle over him, straddling him, and you grind down hard. Dave actually lets out a whine, his head falling back, so you take the chance to kiss his exposed neck, nipping right over his pulse. Dave’s grip on your hair tightens, pulling a little, and it hurts hard enough that you move over to his shoulder and bite down, quickening the movement of your hips against his. He pushes his up to meet yours, one leg coming up closer to yours as if trying to gain more friction.

You quietly laugh at his efforts, leaning in closer and murmuring a harsh “Nice try” before you lap at the blood from your bite. It tastes bitter, coppery, like your own blood but somehow sweeter. Is this why people thought vampires existed? Because of this, the anger forming between you two, enough that you can like the taste of his _blood_?

You don’t even give yourself time to think about it - you just grind your hips against his, and he haphazardly rolls his up against yours. Your teeth scrape against his collarbone, ripping off his shirt, and you’re glad that your house is out in the middle of fucking nowhere, because you’re outside, grass stains on your pants, and Dave’s moaning like a bitch in heat.

He grabs your jaw and pulls your face back towards his, slamming his mouth into yours like he needs your oxygen. You tilt your head a little, grazing your teeth against the exposed flesh, and he whines so loudly you almost come right there. But you can’t - you’re going to make him come first, because you’ve got something else in mind.

His hips are moving faster now, trying to achieve more friction where there isn’t any - faster, faster, and then he staggers, his nails digging into your scalp, your mouth still pressed against his.

You pull back, breathing hard. “C’mon. Say my name,” you hiss.

“F- _fuuuuck you_ ,” he stutters, and you grind down harder. He lets out a noise, babbling out ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and other words in between. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth slick from blood and spit. “ _John_ , fuck -”

You push your hips down and his surge up to meet you before he falls, shaking, eyes rolling back as he cries out something that sounds like your name, strangled and desperate.

You lick your lips, and it tastes like blood.

He’s not even done shaking when you climb off him, yanking him to his knees by his hair. He yelps, hissing out cuss words, still half-blitzed out and flushing. It’s dark enough that you can’t see it as well, but you’re pulling down your pants, pushing your underwear with them. Your dick is wet with precum, and you’re close enough, but you shove it close to his mouth.

“Take it,” you say, tightening your grip on his hair, shoving him closer to your crotch.

He glares up at you, but takes you in his mouth, his shoulders relaxing a little. He presses his tongue into your slit, and you almost see stars, your head rolling back a little and up at the night sky, but you keep your gaze focused on his. His eyes on yours.

You’re in it to win it, and you WILL win.

He takes you down - no gag reflex, apparently - and goes at your dick like it’s cake for breakfast, swallowing around you while one of his hands digs into your thigh. You grit your teeth, nails digging into Dave’s scalp, enough to actually draw blood. He makes a noise around your dick and pulls back, the cold night air hitting your exposed flesh and sending prickles up your spine. “Don’t you fuckin’ _dare_. I will bite your dick off.”

“You won’t.”

“ _Don’t_ try me,” he says, and takes you back in his mouth. You thrust your hips, and he winces, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re such a good boy,” you say, and you can feel yourself growing closer to the edge, your hips pressing faster and harder. You can’t even bring yourself to slow it down, just dig one hand into the bite mark on his left shoulder and the other into his scalp. “So good, Dave… _fuck_.” He moans around you, his tongue flicking at the underside of your dick, and you can’t help but laugh. “Dave Strider, on his knees. For me. Who would’ve thought?”

He tilts his head ever so slightly, head pulling back, just the head of your dick in his mouth, one hand coming up to pump at the rest, his fingers curled around you. Your eyelids slam closed - you feel like a spring, ready to pop, nothing left to do but thrust your hips disorderly. You gasp out, “I’m going to, Dave, _shit_ -”

You expect him to pull off, but he keeps going at it, and you come down his throat with a harsh “fuck” on your tongue. Your body feels like it’s pulling apart, rebuilding itself at the roots. Like you’re the wind, everywhere at once, and you fall apart. Your hands tighten in his hair, on his shoulder, but you want his tongue to quit working at you, want his mouth on yours, want to hold him close or push him back to the ground or…

You don’t know what you want, but you do know that when everything quits being so black, he’s back on his feet, wiping off his mouth.

“I hate you,” he mumbles, but his voice is _almost_ soft. “You’re the fuckin’ _worst_ , John.”

“Shut up,” you say, your chest heaving.

He reaches to the ground and grabs his discarded katana, and looks like he’s about to fly off, about to leave, and… you can’t have that. No fucking way.

You reach out and grab his wrist. “I have a first aid kit. You’re gonna come inside with me, and I’m gonna clean up those wounds, and then we’re gonna sleep.”

So much is left unsaid. You want to try and explain yourself, you want to try and apologize. You know the latter would be useless, because neither of you are sorry for anything - except maybe what you said that sparked this entire strife in the first place. That, you're sorry for. And you wish you could fight off the resentment boiling in your chest, push it down and bottle it up like you always do, because you're good at internalizing your feelings. You're good at pushing them down, at pretending you belong on this planet, with these people. But you don't. You never will.

“You’re fucked up,” he says, but his shoulders slump.

You look him right in his eyes, blue meeting red. He's not your Dave, and you're not his John, but you wonder what shade of purple you’d make.

“Aren’t we all?”


End file.
